Magnus Frostbeard's Arc

Chapter 1 of 15

Magnus Frostbeard slammed his map on the tavern table and swore no one had crossed the frozen wastes and lived to draw it. He was short and stout, his beard heavy with old frost. For twenty years he had chased one rumor: a warm valley hidden at the heart of the ice, green and safe. He had the map half-charted. He did not have a crew, and no man could make that crossing alone. The tavern was warm and loud. Snow slid off its roof in wet clumps. Magnus stood on a bench and shouted his offer. He needed three strong bodies for a march into the deadly ice lands. A hunter laughed. A fisherman turned back to his ale. One old woman told him the cold had eaten his wits. "You want the valley," a deep voice said. "Everyone who wants it dies out there." Magnus turned. A white-furred were-bear filled the doorway, black eyes fixed on the map. This was Frost Thornpaw, a hunter Magnus had heard of but never met. Thornpaw crossed the room and pressed one clawed finger to the blank half of the chart. "You've never seen past this line. I have. I'll show you, if you can pay." "I can pay in a share of the valley," Magnus said. Thornpaw grunted. It sounded like agreement. A chair scraped. A huge troll woman rose from the corner, red braids swinging, her explorer's vest patched at both shoulders. Greta Stonebraid had listened the whole time. "A were-bear and a dwarf," she said. "You'll freeze without someone who can carry the load and dig you out of a drift." She dropped a coil of climbing rope on the table. "That's me. I go where the maps end." Magnus grinned into his beard. Two, and both worth ten. He needed one more. The door opened on a gust of snow. A small ice elf slipped inside, white hair wet, a thin blade at her hip. Frost Winterchase pressed her back to the wall and watched the room like a hunted thing. Her eyes stopped on Magnus's map. "You know the ice," Magnus said. It was not a question. "I was born in it," she said. "And I need to be gone from this town by morning." She looked at the door, then back at the map. "Take me across the wastes and I'll guide you through the crevasse fields. No one hunts a person out there." Magnus looked at the three of them. A were-bear, a troll, an elf on the run. Not the crew he had pictured. Better. "We leave at first light," he said, and rolled up the map. Winterchase went still. Boots stamped snow on the porch outside. Fists pounded the tavern door. A hard voice called her name and ordered it opened. She drew her blade. Magnus had his crew. Now they had to run before dawn.